Half a world away
No closer than two stars half bright
Half alive only half the time

And I the hapless gazer
The amateur enthusiast
The wakened soul who cries with the wolves
To the moon
‘who am I to gaze’
‘who am I to covet what I’ve left’

and they, far as the distant cosmos
form constellations with pins of flickering light
that I’ve never considered before
never known or cared to know
myths, and names, and stories that I
the hapless gazer
will only watch with a bleary jealous wonder

Passing nomads gaze with me for a moment
For a moment let me dress in their clothes
Eat from their table
Drink from their cup
For a moment
With the promise of return one day
To gaze with me
On their terms
For one more moment

We were two introverts
surrounded by an infestation
of the dipsomania and delight.
Ingested by white noise,
flashing lights
and sin,
we stood sheltered behind conservatism
and our cocktails.
This technophonic cave
was crammed with lascivious men
modeling their lavish kicks and threads
in pursuit of non-commitment.
With our backs pressed firmly
against our salutary wall,
we felt inviolable.

But then, you turned to me.

Your chandelier earrings exploded
the luminescence and trepidation
into a million particles,
and through the deafening roar
of pandemonium and decadence,
you offered a wink and said,
“Let’s dance.”

Tiles
Soaking in cold processed air
Licking with every step
feet bare and made damp
by the mornings dew

gooseflesh marks bare arms
baked from the sun
confused by the rain

mixed signals
from room to room
from out to in
in one moment bright and burning
energetic as the sun
in the next flashed by
new room
new rain

relationships half built
abandoned for the better option
lonely walks
awkward eye contact
misplaced affection
stretched thin and frayed

The gecko
stuck behind a glass door
is a better friend
a warmer soul
a more significant heat
sharing my own space

I orientate myself
from one room to another
different worlds cramped
on a single plot of land

Reason tells me I am not alone
the full bed sharing
my cold and processed space
says 'there are others like you'
but full fields I cannot open
full rooms I pass through
as a ghost through a wall
call 'you are lonely'
and there is no one
(but myself)
to blame

And again I found myself laying underneath the sun and above the shattered oak leaves.
Dressing the ground on a cold Autumn day, these tiny vessels carpet the woodland floor.
I find that we can learn much from the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plain,
I find that if one looks close enough, we really are no different than even these leaves.
Daily we’re swept off of our branches and blown into countless differing directions, parting
Parting from one another when our time is decided, knowing not to where we fly.
And just like these leaves, we are truly simple beings, varying in color and size,
But all coming from the same root.
You see I’ve found, by only watching the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plains,
That once we come to know our roots, the directions we take are no more valuable than the petty pride we often carry.
So here’s the deal you see, I really don’t have much to say, so listen close.
No one person is better than another, no one person is more important than some other
And this is so, because our roots are the same.
As the leaves of the trees and the grass of the plains of this earth in which we inhabit,
We must come to realize that our leaves are not what matters, but the fruit we produce.
We must come to realize yes, that without healthy fruits of love and peace and kindness
Our tree is but merely a sore sight to those looking upon our arboretum from outside